Party Poison
by Moshing In Panem
Summary: His arms link gently around her neck, like a noose, as he bends down to embrace her. It isn't right to lead her on like this, not for so long. It's not her noose, though; it's his. Delly x Peeta, Katniss x Haymitch, with undertones of Everlark, of course.
1. The End

**Disclaimer: I don't not own The Hunger Games. Thanks so much for the reviews guys. 3 They really make my day.**

_And yet another dreary day at the bakery passes before Peeta Mellark decided to put his foot down._

**Peeta's POV**

The oven was roaring with a perfectly shaped set of multi-grain challah rolls and Roper, my assistant, had apprenticed for such an amount of time so that I felt comfortable enough abandoning the counter to greet Delly.

In all honesty, after a long succession of vapid, doe-eyed warriors for the reproductive cause and far too many attempts at trying to get into my apron, I decided to forgo all romance until I could sort out my emotions. Katniss Everdeen was not girl on fire; no, she was an ice queen with a heart of frosted glass. Her cold and unforgiving shoulder had turned me frigid and my only solution to the heart-shattered riddle and lovely torment that was Katniss Everdeen was to defrost myself with the searing heat of post-apocalyptic lust.

Of course, these things never last, and I began to find that these girls wanted relationships that I could not provide. So I confined myself to the bakery—threw myself into my work—and hired a male companion to aide me in said work. Roper was a fast-learner and would endless lend an ear to my Everdeen-induced lamentations.

And then along came Delly Cartwright, or, rather, the recognition of Delly. She was love and she was sunshine. She smiled of her own accord. She was friendly and lovable, and she possessed a pre-Panem classic appearance of glamour: voluptuous, blonde, and absolutely charming.

It had been six months.

"Peeta," she breathed excitedly in my ear as we embraced shamelessly in the bakery. Our love was no longer the object of shock and gossip; in fact, in confidence, many had relayed that the relationship between Delly and me was much more beneficial than that of the crass bombshell rebel headcase that had plagued me so endlessly.

"Delly," I answered, holding her close to me. With only the only the slightest pang of guilt, I compare this touch to the one I shared three years ago. Sure, this is warmer, softer, better perhaps… but was this more satisfying than the last?

She holds me at length now, but still close enough so that I can smell her bright and airy floral scent. "I'm so glad to see you today."

My hands slide from her waist to her cheeks as I plant a kiss on the top of her head. "Me too. Do you want to go home? Roper is doing an excellent job."

She hears the intent in my voice and not even thirty seconds have passed when I'm out the door with Delly on my arm.


	2. The Sharpest Lives

**Peeta's POV**

Four hours later, whilst retrieving the debris from a different kind of war zone, Delly says once more, " I love you."

"You too," I reply, just like every other time. She wears my favorite shirt—and not much else—a cadet blue burnout sort of thing that was hand distressed with the shrapnel of the rebellion. Another girl wore it once, when the war was making its design, and now Delly wears it, trying to fit love into hate. Peace into war. A heart into the shape of a pile of smoldering ashes. Once it hung limp as the girl inside cowered in apprehension, and now it's full of confidence.

This new creature snuggles in close to me, so we lay down once more, discoursing about nothing as her hand rests on my chest. Do I laugh or do I cry? The script was written by a child and the actors were trained only as butchers. I swallow back guilt and regret and my face becomes of mask of idle contentment.

"Maybe…."

"What?" Delly pounces, the hope in her voice churning my insides.

"We should have a party. For our six month."

I always had a knack for persuasion. Yes, I could summon the world, like a siren, to its death if I worked hard enough… Of course, two still would remain unconvinced of my charm.

Slowly, her face turns up to meet mine and almost all of the tension in my mind dissolves. I am Peeta Mellark. I am perfect, as well as the perfect boyfriend. I can never fail.

Author's note: Sorry for the short chapter! The next one will be longer, I promise! :*


	3. Honey, This Mirror Isn't Big Enough

**Katniss' POV**

The telephone rings.

Ecstatic, I pick up the phone, giddily jamming the receiver to my mouth. Stuffed in between my toes are bits of velvety white cotton, like snow, to separate the toenails and protect the nail varnish. The blue is electrifying, my skin creating the illusion of a District 4 shoreline at my feet.

"Haymitch!"

"Katniss?"

I freeze, like an Avox called to trial. On the other end of this connection are a man and a voice that my mind has only touched upon in faint, sepia passing. This is high definition color and my brain cannot register what is in occurrence at this time.

"Peeta?" The word is a ghost that slips beyond parted lips.

"Yes." He swallows audibly on the other end. "It's me Katniss. Long time, no chat."

I feel sick. I am physically ill and sick to my stomach. The urge to slam down the telephone and destroy this infernal device is overwhelming. I see it now, the methods that I'll use to break this telephone and run to the downstairs bathroom to wretch. I grip the phone with shaking hands.

"I've been sick."

A hollow laugh resounds on the other end.

"Sick, you say?" His words make me uneasy.

"I could have helped you. I could have helped you, Katniss," he continues, his voice cracking slightly. " I could have helped you heal."

Sure, Peeta could have been of much use. For example, he could have provided money for anti-depressants, the price of which is inflated in Panem. Even sustenance would come at no charge—and perhaps, the medicine, too, with Peeta's good looks, charm and wit. His words I do not deny. His words I do not deflect. I've gone numb.

"I could have taken care of you, the way you took care of me."

In that instant, I feel ten times worse. Not only has the boy with bread grown up, but now he has suffered even more than he has let on, and at my hand, no less. What's more is that this guilt mingles with hurt and I hold back the words I want to scream because the last thing I need is to pick a fight about Peeta's atrocious girlfriend. Besides, Peeta is not worth my stress.

Haymitch has enlightened me.

"Why did you call?" I ask, drawing on that same unknown source of strength I've always used. It's odd, the way I mine this energy to get me through adversity, such as poverty, the Games, life.

"It's good to hear your voice," I add hastily. This last sentiment means nothing, I tell myself, it's just a desperate attempt for a normal conversation, Peeta's wishful thinking be damned, although I cannot lie and say that a tiny part of me wonders if perhaps Peeta and I are co-habitable.

Of course, Peeta's deal-breaker would be the situation concerning my relationship with Haymitch because I don't want to hurt Peeta… and I don't want to hurt Haymitch, either.

"You too, Katniss," Peeta says softly before moving on. "I called to invite you over to my house for a dinner party."

"Oh." It appears as if Peeta spent too much time in the Capitol, then. A party? In society that rose from the ashes to be blown to bits—and what for, I wonder, what have I really done apart from messing around in Panem's politics in a supposedly more beneficial and pleasing manner?— Peeta wants to throw a freaking party. A party. Yes, while people are struggling to rebuild the miserable existences that they once hailed as lives, let's have a couple drinks and a chat, because we're clearly best friends, there's no tension—belligerent or otherwise—and we both have never been pitted against each other to fight to the death, nor have we ever broken each others hearts, called each other atrocious names or ever been upset with each other because we both live in perfect, little worlds without conflict.

"Yes, bring whoever you wish," Peeta continues.

"Good," I sniff. "I'm bringing Haymitch."

"Great. That sounds reasonable." Peeta finishes far too sweetly, and I know that I've struck a nerve. "He was our mentor. He's a lot _older_ and so therefore he can be our chaperone, especially since he's so _responsible_."

"He is. More responsible than most that I know. You'd be surprised."

"Oh? Really? Like?"

"How's your girlfriend?"

"Fine, thanks. This party _is_ to commemorate our six month anniversary. Thought you'd like to know."

Time stands still.

I feel as if I've been kicked in the chest.

Our tones had become sharp and even, and we had both worked up a bit of a sweat trying to tear one another down. Enough encounters in the Hob coupled with Peeta's POW days in the Capitol's grimy clutches had made us both sarcastic and ready to fight. However, this? This was something else entirely. Although I'd never admit, this was mind-blowing. This was shocking. This was an outrage.

Peeta and Delly? They had gone public not terribly long ago, perhaps a week or so, and yet Peeta claims that they had been exclusive for the better half of the year.

I thought he loved me.

My skin feels prickly and hot, a mixture of betrayal and frustration and annoyance and rage, all of my emotions threatening to overflow in either hurtful words, destruction or tears.

So here revealed is the real Peeta Mellark.

He even has the nerve to invite me not just to a dinner party but to a dinner party held in honor of his six month partnership with Delly?

"Thanks. That's helpful. Might get you guys a gift." _Not_.

"Oh," Peeta drawls. "Delly would love that."

"I'm sure she would. Congratulations, by the way."

"Thank you."

The telephone slams on its dock.


	4. Tell Me, Baby, Who Do You Wanna Be?

**Peeta's POV**

Delly busies herself relentlessly with preparation for the party. One would think that we resided in the extravagant Capitol of old, not the war-torn though ameliorated shambles of today's District 12. However, I feel accomplished for dreaming up the notion. This should make things final with Delly as well as apparent to the rest of the world, and, among other things, Katniss will still wonder why she ever spurned my affections.

Of course, if Katniss does desire to return to my arms, I can't just erupt and pull her in close. First, I must confirm her emotional stance. Then, I must slowly do away with Delly—and there's no doubt that that alone will be a difficult task, for both of us should it occur in reality. Slowly, slowly. Deliberately. Even now, I am distant, but Delly is oblivious to my apathy. The war has turned everyone bitter save for Delly and her younger brother Justin, despite the dual loss of their parents to the Capitol's destruction. Perhaps she thinks that she must take into account those not blessed with her unfailing optimism.

The worst part is that she is such a kind, kind-hearted person. She thinks that Katniss is some warrior princess angel, and, despite the brutality of the Games and the uproar of the rebellion, that Katniss Everdeen is above sabotage and playing dirty.

Delly is too nice.

The door bursts open and I lay the old cookbook down on the coffee table. Justin is out, as he often is these days, and Delly looks ravishing, cheeks flushed and hair tousled in District 4-esque waves. From her arms spill apricot-colored placemats and sunflower napkin rings and from underneath swings a bag with delicately wrapped pastel orange glass goblets and lace stamped candles.

She sets down her spoils and we embrace casually before she begins to speak. "I got an excellent bargain." Her smile lights up the room. "Justin's with Roper. We both stopped by to see and some of that delicious apple walnut cake, but you weren't there. Anyway, there's a cute new girl from District 7 that Justin's smitten with. Ah, first love. It's a very powerful thing."

Delly's eyes linger on my face and next thing I know, we're kissing. She's pushed up against the counter and I don't know how she got there, really, but there's an animal inside that's taking over before the next time I am fully conscious of what's happening—the next morning, under feathery down and guilt.

We exchange the same damn words again before Delly picks up her crumpled floral sheath and slips it on with a pair of my navy dress socks and a pair of my good Oxfords, since she can't find the rest of her clothes, which are no doubt probably ripped to shreds.

She leaves alone once more and I'm left wondering why.


	5. On a Bender, and It Shows

**Katniss' POV**

Two lacy blouses, five pairs of bloomers and nine scarves later, I finally throw my hair up into a casual bun and break out the strappy heels to see Haymitch. He's invited a few friends over, and insisted that I join them for drinks.

In the living room, seated around the coffee table are an odd assortment of people, an eclectic bunch from various districts. One man introduces himself as Roper—very District 12 in terms of grey-colored eyes and dark, stringy hair. He's dressed in casual pants and a tee shirt and I can't help but note that he doesn't look nearly as attractive as Haymitch does in wrinkled slacks and a dress shirt unbuttoned two buttons and rolled up to his elbows.

Another person introduces herself as Natalie, another as Claudius, and so on. All the while, as these new found—or perhaps not so newly found—friends introduce themselves, converse with me, laugh and smile and present jokes and anecdotes for my amusement, I can feel Haymitch's eyes watching me, gauging my reaction. Every now and then, I cannot resist a glance in his direction and he gives me that same, familiar, reassuring look that became my lifeline three years ago. The look that kept me alive.

The afternoon has melted into evening, and the gargantuan bowl of tortilla chips—once accompanied by the ever-depleting ration of salsa that Haymitch provided for each of his guests—has run its course.

"Who wants more chips?" asks Haymitch, a coy smile playing about his lips. Almost subconsciously, the sheer attractiveness of Haymitch is reaffirmed in my mind and I feel a bit sheepish but happy to be honest with myself. He grabs the bowl of chips and heads off to the kitchen to replenish the culinary supply.

"Here, I'll take this guys," I offer abruptly, gathering up tiny bowls of salsa in attempt to get some proper time alone with Haymitch. The invitation to Peeta's dinner party hangs over me like a burial shroud. I hear a couple of snickers. Roper only gives me a small, sad smile. I can't help but feel unnerved, ashamed, odd as I walk into the kitchen after him, making a point of creating noise—but not enough to be considered ostentatious—so as not to scare Haymitch. To be quite frank – although these incidents have occurred less frequently as of late—there's nothing more terrifying than Haymitch wielding a knife… Which is why I followed the man with the liquor into his kitchen.

And with the liquor he is. I'm not so silent as to go unnoticed; rather, he simply does not acknowledge me as he downs the contents of a silvery, floral flask of what is undoubtedly alcohol. Haymitch wipes the back of his hand across his mouth before turning to face me. His expression is slightly apprehensive, tainted with regret. He leans against the granite countertop, surveying me.


	6. Lipgloss Smiles

**Katniss' POV**

I open my mouth to say something, anything, to fill the cold, awkward void between us, but Haymitch holds up his hand, running the other through his hair.

"Look, Katniss, I'm sorry," he starts, and I can't help but wonder why he's apologizing.

"No, no, it's fine. You—deserve a drink," I mumble, looking around for the mason jar surely to contain the chopped chiles, peppers and tomatoes that have added spice to this afternoon's affair.

"No, I don't," he counters bitterly.

Yes, yes you do. You've been through more shit than anyone I know, darling. Drink if you must, if it keeps you sane, because I don't have that privilege. At least, you won't let me, anyways. All of this is on the tip of my tongue, but I keep it inside, feeling as if it's not my place to conjure up all of those feelings and memories. I'm trying my hardest to keep the evening light, free, unhindered by the iron grip of the Capitol us tributes have grown to hate and hate even more. That is, if we're still alive.

"Katniss, I'm really sorry that you've… I'm trying to quit, you see." The words come out choppily, fragmented and sheepish. This statement causes me to actually drop the fork that I was using to distribute salsa into the tiny metallic bowls, and turn around to look at him. His graphite-colored eyes are cast downwards, intent on shoveling the proper amount of tortilla chips into the bowl and I swear I can see a hint of a blush on his cheeks.

"Really?" I blurt out, bewildered. I can hardly contain my curiosity. Haymitch Abernathy, the man with the liquor, lawfully wedded to his bottle in every district, circumstances be damned. "Why?"

The man takes his time to answer. He extracts a particularly sharp gem, a perfect concave triangular beauty, and examines his find, no, analyzes it. I can't help but think of his look as the same of one in the mines, examining every bit of rock for choice coal. He closes the physical gap between us and plumbs the depths of salsa with his chip before carefully bringing it towards his perfect mouth. I wonder why the Capitol never employed this kind of torture.

I watch him slowly consume the combination, one elbow on the counter as he's facing me, contemplating whether or not he still intends to reply to my simply, monosyllabic query.

"Because, he answers, and I feel myself growing hot, and not just because he is inches away from me, shirt unbuttoned, hair tousled just so, looking so perfectly imperfect. I finish replenishing the bowls of salsa before whirling around to get a proper explanation.

"What kind of answer is that?" I demand, my hands subconsciously curling themselves into fists. Since the Games, all of my anger and frustration tended to manifests itself in either physical violence or other self-destructive behaviors, and tonight, I was feeling a bit of the former.

"Whoa," admonishes Haymitch. "Take it easy, sweetheart." It is in this instance he does something quite unexpected from Haymitch. Suddenly his hands close over mine, unfurling the fists until he can hold my hands properly. He draws them up from my sides so that they are front and center, and it is then that he announces, " I am trying to quit for you."


	7. Demolition Lovers

**Katniss' POV**

I blink, unsure of what Haymitch's has said.

"What?" I ask, sounding a bit unintelligent, but I ask for clarification. This is madness, but of the best variety. This is surreal. This is almost as shocking as when I picked up the phone, expecting Haymitch, and instead answered to the godforsaken disasterpiece that was Peeta Mellark of recent. Almost.

"I'm trying to quit drinking," Haymitch explained, swallowing, eyes trained on me. "For you. I want to be better. Not a stark raving mad intoxicated—"

"Inebriated," I added, my sarcasm not caring if I had momentarily been rendered speechless. It tended to land me in a lot of trouble with my mom, but at this point, I'm sure mother dearest was quite certain who ran shit in our house once my father passed away. The side of Haymitch's mouth twitched.

"Hot mess," he concluded.

I smile and then do something completely out of character myself. I give him a hug.

I hold him tightly around the waist, my arms snug against taut muscle under the best cotton in the district, and his arms enveloping me, making me feel whole again.

Secure.

I pull away, trying to hide a self righteous little grin that I can sense is about to form. I must clear my head. I must remain calm. I must maintain sanity. I must maintain control.

"Oh."

"Yes?" Haymitch hands me a tray.

"Peeta's having a party."

"Oh. Really?" I hear confusion in his voice. "What for?"

"For his anniversary."

Haymitch raises an eyebrow.

"The Cartwright girl?"

"Yes," I reply, waiting for his reaction. He simply shrugs, running a contemplative hand through his hair.

"Oh," he says again. Then a grin spreads across his face. "And you're telling me this… why?"

I swallow. Oh, no. I didn't anticipate the actual nature of this impending moment.

"I… Peeta… I need you to come with me."

"Oh."

"Oh? What kind of answer—"

"I'll come with you."

I smile once more. My goodness, Katniss—

"This must be a record."

"What?"

"You're smiling an awful lot today, Katniss."

"Well," I say cautiously, at a bit of a loss for words. "There's a lot to be happy for."

We go out to the party together, and I can't help but think that I can get used to this.


	8. Cancer

**A/N: Hey! Oh my goodness, it's been too long since I have updated. :O I went away for a month on vacation and then came school. XP Luckily, I've found some time to write and subsequently update. And now, I currently present to you the next belated installment. It's a bit of a filler chapter, but there's more to come, I promise. So… Enjoy!**

**Peeta's POV**

Thirteen mintues until eight.

I glance at the vanity over Delly's shoulder, and catch a glimpse of a man that I don't know.

His face is drawn, and slightly gaunt. He looks about 25 or so, although that certainly isn't his age. He looks a bit weathered, and worn, his sanity tested and eroded by the torture and loss, both of a physical and psychological nature, but he's still good-looking, nonetheless.

His hair is the color of faded wheat and his skin is like refined flour, adulterated but preferred; it's no longer good and wholesome and natural, but commercial and with the times. His best feature is the barely alert set of dull cornflower orbs that are as empty as the drains at the bottom of his bathtubs—not quite as dark and endless as the abysses of the Seam-folk, but close.

He notices Delly watching him. She's as radiant as the sun, her almost white blonde hair in elegantly braided bun fixture atop her head. Her large round cheeks are as sumptuously apricot as ever, the perfect contrast and yet, somehow, he still feels hollow. The softness is wrong, the sweetness is too sweet, everything is far too perfect…

"Excited?" she asks in that endlessly excited way of hers.

"Yes," he answers, closing the gap between them. His arms link gently around her neck, like an ever-condemning flesh and blood noose as he bends down to embrace her. It isn't right to lead her on like this, not for so long. It's not her noose, though; it's his.

A kiss is planted on her cheek. "You look lovely," he recites, his emptiness disguised by a bread-winning District 12 smile.

"As do you," replies Delly sweetly, adjusting his tie, so sweetly it almost made him sick.

It makes me sick. It's always made me sick. In fact, it's going to make me sick for the rest of my life unless I do something about it. Tonight.


	9. House of Wolves

**Katniss' POV**

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am twenty one years old. My home is District 12. And I have nothing to wear to the dinner party.

For what seems like the millionth time in the past few weeks, I'm standing in front of my closet looking for the perfect dress, and despite all of the lovely little Capitol numbers that are staring me in down, I can't find anything that fits.

I close my eyes and sigh, shaking my head and relishing the way that my hair cascades thanks to the ingeniously crafted device that I believe is called a curling iron. After much deliberation and a whole-hearted sigh, I opt for a dark red dress. Snug vermillion taffeta clings at the bodice and flares at the waist. Am I the girl on fire, or am I something else? Something a bit more…

Sinister?

A brush of mascara and a dash of lipstick is sure to send a message, but seconds before I'm out of the door, I think of Haymitch. A message, sure, but I don't want to send the wrong one, to _either_ of them. I opt for a black cardigan adorned with a bow, made of delicate scarlet ribbon and white lace to chasten the neckline and the snug fit of the dress, and with casual black heels. The mirror tells me that I look borderline presentable and to save the jewelry for another day; I don't want Delly to come after me.

Halfway towards the door, an arms curls around my waist, and I whirl around in the near dark, ready to kill, already half-knowing to whom the arm belongs.

"Take it easy, sweetheart," he says, holding his palms to the air. I narrow my eyes at him, trying not to notice the way he's looking at me. Even in the dim glow from the windows of the Mellark house, I can see the perfectly ironed pants and coat, the perfect and straight abyss of fine Capitol fabric that I can't place. A quick once over of his ever-excellent physique and his relatively clean cut appearance. From underneath his blazer peeks a shirt of checkered cream and a pretty, mellow, sunset color. _You're overthinking this_.

"You look nice, " he remarks. "Smell nice, too."

"You look presentable," I say, noting his self-satisfactory smirk. "And you smell… Sober."

"Ah, well," he says, putting his hands in his pockets. "Time to get drunk again."

I make a face.

"What?"

I shrug and sigh, reaching up merely to pat him on the cheek, but he moves away like I'm going to slap him. I withdraw, shaking my head and laughing. He knows me too well.

"Lord, Katniss, what's wrong with you tonight?" Haymitch asks, brow furrowed as he slides up his sleeve to check his watch. Surprisingly, we're early. Of course, it would be just like Delly to graciously let us in, but knowing these two, it would be best not to _interrupt_.

"Come here," I try again, after a moment of looking into the pink-black evening sky.

"No. Naw. Nuh-uh. Are you sure _you're_ not drunk?"

"Just come here," I sing, extending my arms out to him. Haymitch eyes me suspiciously before relenting, moving in closer—warily and cautiously.

"Katniss, I swear," he warns, exhaling slowly as the gap closes between us. Damn he smells good.

"Just come here."

Gingerly, I place my hand on his cheek, always maintaining eye contact with him before dropping my hand back to my side, a bit of a loony smile on my face.

"What?"

"I don't like it when you shave," I offer a bit shyly, shrugging and turning back to the door.

Now it's his turn to make a face. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a bit of absolutely incredulous, caught off guard, and slightly bemused; however, before Haymitch can even concoct a proper reply, the door swings open and out waltzes Delly with Peeta on her arm.

They look nice.

Delly looks like a pretty, plump sunflower, dressed in a pastel yellow cotton dress accented by a pale brown sweater and carved wooden bangles. Peeta comes off understated in a slate grey suit and a black shirt. He looks about ready to go to his own funeral, as well. Dark saddles beneath his eyes betray his mechanical smile as he draws out every syllable.

"Haymitch, Katniss. You guys. Come here."

I shake Delly's hand, lingering in the doorway as Peeta embraces Haymitch, and, never turning my back to any of them—I make a 360 and slip into the parlor.

An hors d'oeurve pops into my mouth as I settle moodily into a corner. Justin, Delly's brother, makes himself known to me, and soon Roper from the bakery comes to talk to me and I humor them for a bit. Luckily, like clockwork, guests begin to file in and suddenly, I find it so much easier to disappear.

Still, I cannot shake this awful sinking feeling. The numbness and yet hunger in Peeta's eyes as he looked at me, burning holes into my being. Eerie, broken, dead. Somehow, he wasn't right. He wasn't bright, genuine, bubbly Peeta—and nobody could expect him to be as such, after the devastation—but something just wasn't right. I would have to thank Haymitch for keeping him preoccupied for so long…

This night was going to be a long one.


	10. Ghost of You

**Roper's POV**

I can't help but notice their distance.

The animosity that pulses in between, closing the gap with sly remarks, hidden sneers and a healthy dose of curious self-pity.

They're a million worlds apart, and yet—

Peeta talks about Katniss almost every day.

Does he realize? Nonchalant words turning into choked sobs, a hand over the face and then he's better again.

I watch him with Delly, I hear the remarks of the Mellark Bakery's patrons, I see the way Haymitch looks at Katniss and the way she returns his glances, I hear the whispered speculation.

Does anybody but Peeta remember the star-crossed lovers from District 12?

But of course, people change. This I know, mainly from Justin. Ever since Peeta came into the picture, Justin has been on his own. Often, I'm worried sick about the kid, and from time to time, I can't help but think that he's going to do something reckless, perhaps even just to get Delly's attention, but it's not my place so I keep quiet.

Like many other in District 12, happiness is only a daydream and a mask. Smiles are only ghosts of what was once the potential of happiness, or an alcohol-induced illusion.

And then there are those, oblivious, like Delly, so very much in love with her charming boyfriend. A bash for their six month anniversary. Rather exorbitant, one might say, but who am I to judge? Who am I to say that Peeta's…

Needy. Clingy. Heavily codependent.

Who am I to say that he's no longer that same, loveable boy from television?

People change. He's a man now, and that's not say that he doesn't own up to his title. He works hard in the bakery, so very hard, in fact, that it pains me to contemplate his effort.

And for what? A girl who has him on a leash? As a pet? Like an animal?

For a girl who pays her suffering brother no mind?

For a girl who pays reality no mind?

Let's face it, there's no way to avoid it:

Peeta loves Delly –and perhaps love is too strong of a word—

But Peeta loves Katniss more.

Forget town gossips and Capitol outcasts. The fact remains that there's a hole in Peeta's heart that Delly can never fit into.

That hole is shaped for Katniss.


	11. I Don't Love You

**The moment has come! Confrontation time. This is where things start to heat up. If you have stuck with me this far, I give you my greatest praise, thanks, blessings, and 1,000 sugar cookies with unicorn blood icing and dream sprinkles and hot smexy men raining from the sky. FYI: I do not own the Hunger Games, or any of its characters.**

**Katniss' POV**

The discourse during dinner is dismal. I'm on my third drink by the time I've realized a few things, and among them is Peeta: rigid, tense, and ramrod straight. Every few minutes he eyes the flowers on the table, flowers that Haymitch brought that I didn't see him bring but flowers he brought nonetheless. And the eyes, eyes that he sets on me, surveying me and testing the air between us between bites of lemon-ginger duck and asparagus.

The food moves around on my plate like the boundaries of the districts, and I'm surprised at the way I regurgitate the pleasant lines I learned in the Capitol back to Delly. I make small talk with all of them, about the weather, about reconstruction, about trivial things that will never matter to me half as much as they matter to anyone else. Every now and then, the corners of my mouth will genuinely twitch at something that Haymitch has said, mumbled just loud enough for some to hear as he swirls around his wine glass, creating a blood red tornado in his glass, locking eyes with me every now and then. The alcohol kicks in about two hours in, and suddenly, Haymitch becomes comedy gold.

He takes cracks at Roper, a friend, and some others before moving on to me and then Peeta. I take it politely and quietly, as it's only a couple of quips about birds and fire. But with Peeta, Haymitch lets everything loose. Even after adjoining to the sitting room for dessert, Haymitch just won't stop. A couple of times I put my hand on his arm imploringly, ready to drag Haymitch away from the complete disaster area.

It's almost too easy: a meaningful glance at Haymitch (who's buzzed but not so entirely hammered that the gesture goes unnoticed), a small smile at Roper and some classic District 12 line to graciously disappear and still remain polite. I could go home, put on the comfy silk pajamas that Effie had gifted me after the first Games, and forget. Forget that I ever knew Peeta Mellark, forget that I ever kissed Peeta Mellark, forget that I ever slept in the same bed as he did, of course, because it seemed that everyone else had. I could scrub the past away, and later tonight, I could wash away any remnants of this poisonous evening.

Why was I here? Because I was _happy_ for Peeta Mellark and Delly Cartwright?

"Katniss."

I look up in the direction of the voice, and am met with the cold eyes that I once loved. "Can I have a word with you?"

A quick survey of the room tells me that Delly is engaged with a vivacious and chatty ginger from District 5, a friend of Justin's. There's absolutely no escape, and I know that the moment that I had been dreading had come. Fingernails painted red dig into the fabric of Haymitch's jacket. He leans into me, hot booze-scented breath washing over me as he sighs, "Sweetheart, you're _killing _my arm!"

Peeta's eyes have never left mine, and I feel Haymitch growing restless at my side. I can feel the irritation radiating in waves. My grip remains steady.

"It'll only be a few minutes," Peeta insists curtly. I look at Haymitch, and quite clear is that something has snapped inside of him. He sets his wine glass down a little too hard, and liquid threatens to slosh out on Delly's fine mahogany.

"The fuck you want to talk to Katniss for?" He asks evenly and yet vituperatively, never drawing a glance from any of the other guests with his simmering, silent anger. As of recent, Haymitch had grown to be a particular belligerent drunk, _especially_ around Peeta. I knew that Haymitch would never hurt _me_, but I couldn't assure the same level of safety for Peeta. Did he forget the pocket-knife?

Peeta's face hardens; his fists clench and unclench. The animosity developing between the two men is palpable.

"Huh, boy? Fuck you want to talk to Katniss for?" Haymitch asks again.

My arm shoots out to hold Peeta back, subsequently letting Haymitch stumble quietly into a wall. "It'll only be a minute, Haymitch."

"You have a girlfriend, you know," Haymitch taunts, looking up at Peeta through his hair, a strange and sinister look on his face. "Isn't that why we're here?"

A nerve jumps in Peeta's jaw, and my hand on his chest holds him back.

"Fuck it," growls Haymitch, picking up his glass once more and tossing the whole thing down his throat. "I'm not her dad. I don't give a damn."

The fabric of Peeta's shirt is drawn under my hand as I grab him and thrust him away, anywhere away from here, because what kind of hairpin turn in conversation was that? Peeta stumbles into a dimly lit hallway, and I'm on his heels, familiar with the layout of my own house.

The soft cornflower blue wallpaper looks like the walls of a crypt, and swinging above the neatly arranged yellowed photographs of the Cartwright family is a chandelier that was quite alien to my memory. We exit the corridor into the sunroom and onto the balcony. I was still fuming about what Haymitch had said, and the cool air lashed my face with its touch.

Why did he have to bring up my father? Why did he have to bring up the age difference? He had been like a father to me, sure, in some aspects. He had been my mentor in the Games, and a mentor on the battlefield, but he was more like a friend to me. A good friend. My only real friend, in the social minefield of both the Games and Panem's revolution. I had only had a mother, a father, a sister, and a hunting partner. And a fellow Tribute. I had never really had a friend. He had been like a father to me, and, as of recent, not so like a father. I ran my hand through my perfectly tousled waves, which suddenly felt stupid and fake.

The night air still stung my cheeks, a gentle reminder that not only was I mad as hell, but that the alcohol was staring to work. I began to understand why Haymitch liked to drink. It made things make more sense. Maybe if I had seen this coming, whatever I had agreed to experience on this desolate terrace, I would have gotten inebriated as well.

"Katniss, look—" Peeta starts, and in the near darkness, I actually look at him for the first time.

His face is so gaunt, and his eyes are merely two hollow orbs in the darkness. He looks half-dead. I wait for him to begin as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, his lean body no longer leonine but simply slim, a fraction of the muscle taped onto the bone. "I want to apologize."

Apologize?

Apologize, you say?

Apologize? For trying to control me, to smother me, to drown me, to burn me, to kill me? I couldn't stand his vice grip. I had to get away; I had to break it off. I could always sense his restlessness, the way he was forever put out with me when I was trying so hard to be what he wanted. I could see his pained expressions, all the respective complaints buried underneath gentlemanly charm and strained wit. He wanted more than I could give emotionally. We could hold each other for nightmares, but we could never hold on.

"Thanks," I answer, numb and trying to keep the anger away, because what else can I say? His apology means nothing, because nobody knows as well as [Haymitch and] I do that Peeta Mellark's words are only that—words. If it wasn't his looks, it was his words, because he's always had a talent for speech and language. Nothing—not the honey-colored hair nor the sun-kissed skin nor the wholesome lovely smile nor the well-oiled machine nor the penchant for baking— could ever replace the moments of my life that I wasted with Peeta Mellark.

So I stand there for a few minutes, not sure what to do. His look is controlled but expectant, as if waiting for a whole hearted confession, a warm and clinging embrace, or a kiss on the cheek, to let him know that he's back in my good graces and that he's available for a little bit of action any time that he pleases. But I give him exactly what I got from him.

Nothing.


	12. The Jetset Life is Gonna Kill You

**Peeta's POV**

Wind rustles her hair ever so slightly, fluffing chocolate and copper curls that look black at night. The scenery is unimpressive against the sight of Katniss, all dolled up—the same, thick, ugly undergrowth over the same shriveled grass that, as of recent, is decorated with charred remains and unidentifiable carbon mounds of debris. We're standing so close that I can catch the familiar scent of lavender soap on her skin and I want to touch her. One last time, because this might be the last time that I have the opportunity. _No._

Cautiously, in the same manner one might use so as not to spook an animal, I reach out to caress her cheek—

– but her hand flies up to deflect the action.

"No," she says firmly, her steel eyes cold and unforgiving, but retaining that unmistakable look of hurt and confusion reserved for only a select few. She was always too proud for her own good, yet more fragile than anyone would ever expect.

"You have a girlfriend," she reminds me.

And so it comes down to this.

If only she knew.

If only I could express to her the depth of my deception, the façade of affection, the horrendously fabricated effrontery of a love courtesy of Delly. True, Katniss was a bit cold and a bit heartless, but in a way, I still needed her. I was co-dependent. I craved her in a way that was not good for my sanity. Maybe I could changer her, trim away her infected parts, turn the cancerous, frostbitten black into buttery, shimmery, summery yellow. Maybe I could fix her – I _had_ to fix her—because I wasn't too sure if I could stand to exploit such an innocent and simple infatuation anymore.

"You're right," I manage, and I begin the slow trek to my grave. This was the end.

Just like that, my last chance (for awhile anyway) had been snuffed out, without so much as a hesitation, a wince or a blink of the eye. Perhaps it was for the best. Haymitch was particular testy and it was certain from the first gulp just how much he had begun to hate me. We had all laughed it off as off-color humor courtesy of a drunk, but every bitter invective was filled with a possessive edge. He may have considered me to be good, but he had always loved Katniss. Just how far he would go to protect her was apparent.

Still, Haymitch had (drunkenly) played the age card, leaving Katniss open to interpret things. Of course, we all knew that there was something there between them that wasn't altogether good, holy or chaste. I had always known that deep down they both enjoyed each other's company, but I was beginning to question just to what extent.

The halls were cold and dark, an elegiac mirror, a visual dirge, and desperately some part of me hoped that Katniss could show a little kindness and lean in a little closer, put a smile on that face or inject into this funeral procession a little warmth of which I knew she was fully capable.

The next moment is a blur.

First light and then pain. My eyes are fixed on Delly and then I see the party from the ground—

And into view comes Haymitch with a knife.


	13. Give 'Em Hell Kid

**Peeta's POV**

A scream that's surely Delly's rings out—because Katniss doesn't give a flying fuck about me—and the adrenaline of the Games starts to pump back into me. A swipe for my face rolls me under the table. He's mad, stark raving mad.

Haymitch kicks over the mahogany, sending the lamp flying. Almost in slow motion, I watch as the Capitol crystal shatters into a million tiny crystalline shards, causing Justin's girl to shriek. I scramble backwards, onto my feet, pieces of glass embedding themselves into my hands. The first thing that I can grab is a poker from the fireplace and I brandish the defense in Haymitch's face—and to no avail. He lunges still for my side, slicing open my shirt and just grazing my skin. I don't want to hurt him – because I don't want to hurt _Katniss_—but my God. A swift kick to the groin subdues him considerably, but only for a moment.

"Please!" shouts a voice. This is one is different; it's Katniss'.

"Stop."

With trademark agility, Katniss thrusts herself between the two of us, Haymitch's pocket knife just barely missing her face. She looks fragile, as if she's about to cry, but Katniss never cries. Not in public, anyway. A thin, ethereal sheen of sweat coats her cheeks; her makeup is just short of running—maybe jogging or a light sprint, down prominent cheekbones and a furrowed brow.

I glance furtively at Haymitch. The fire still resides in his eyes, but has dimmed slightly since Katniss' intervention.

"Just stop," she insists again, her ragged voice betraying her, leaning into Haymitch. He receives her stiffly, and anyone who has known Haymitch for any amount of time can tell that he's not finished fighting yet. His eyes have never left my face.

I swallow, still cautious of his careful assessment. "Come on," Katniss murmurs and Haymitch appears to have given up. Gently, her thin, ghostly fingers curl firmly upon Haymitch's coat sleeve, digging into expensive, delightful fabric, and wrenches him away from the crime scene. She pushes him towards the door. I can't help but notice that her voice would be soothing if it wasn't tainted with the borderline hysteria that was kept at bay by a brave face and shoulders squared. Haymitch is half out of the door which is a welcome sight, a bit of progress on Katniss' behalf, when Katniss makes a fatal mistake: she pauses.

"I'm so sorry," she manages to choke out, a pathetic gurgle of enunciated noise between awkward stifled sobs. She was strong, but not as strong as she used to be. Quickly, before anyone can process what is occurring, a flick of the wrist sends a switchblade my way. Haymitch's aim is impeccable. I move aside, only nicked by the weapon, and not surprised when the knife wedges itself into the wall behind me, knocking down pretty glass figurines of kittens from the mantle and sending them to their death on the marble fireplace.

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE," screams Delly, her pleasant voice shrill as she dives to the ground to examine the damage inflicted at a madman's hands. At that, Haymitch stumbles out of the door and I calmly lock it behind him. In the silence of the house, one can clearly discern Haymitch tripping down the stairs and the sound of gravel crunching as they trot down the road. I close the curtains, and turn to face my guests.

A quick 360 – I breathe as if I have just run a mile— brings me the sight of Delly crying silently, maybe more for the ruined living room than for my wellbeing, I decide, as she strokes the ground with shaking hands. She doesn't look at me, but I want her to. I think of patting her on the shoulder, kneeling beside her, embracing her, kissing her atop the head, and smiling at her, to ameliorate the gloomy mood, to make things better, to write the happy ending, to kiss the pain and misery and aura of deception and despair that has permeated every nook and cranny of my being but decide against the notion. There was nothing to smile about.

I shrug and open a bottle of liquor. It's about time.


	14. Disenchanted

**Author's Note: I would like to thank all of the lovely people interested in my first real fic. It's been really fun to write and discover my method of writing fiction. Lots of love to reviewers to Apple, RigbyJuneLennon, BlackMoonQueen, reader93, sparrowismyhummingbird, and Biancaniece. Okay, enjoy! **

**Katniss POV**

Prim. Peeta's hands, bleeding. President Snow's atrocious breath. The eyes of the muttations. Peeta's eyes. Haymitch's eyes.

No more alcohol for me.

Haymitch is too heavy and fading fast, but his door is unlocked. There are no formalities. I let myself in and shoulder him once more before shoving him onto the worn and moth eaten couch.

Tears form, held at bay only by the familiar pain of teeth drawing blood from the tongue.

Haymitch.

The odious stench of his house is no longer the odd yet inviting, fragrant promise of pancakes and smiles and talks. Instead, coupled with tonight's events and Peeta's booze, I want only to vomit and die.

Luckily—and not surprisingly—the only injuries that Haymitch sustained are minor: a cut on the knuckle of his ring finger and a runny nose seem to be about the only pressing issues at the moment, and hardly rival anything that Peeta has undoubtedly suffered.

Peeta. Suffering. Again. Because of me.

Haymitch is fast asleep, and for the first time in months I feel like I want to cry… but I can't.

I was doing all right, thanks, with trips to the downtown of what was once the Seam. My home was burnt to the ground and had risen from the ashes as an industrial wonderland. The place had remained stark, but in a lovely, comforting, understated minimalist fashion—clearly a generous Capitol architect's representation of the old District 12. The same went for me at the fall of the Capitol. I was still broken, hopeless, rundown old Katniss Everdeen, but now I was the Mockingjay. I was the same at the end of the day, but I was built stronger, smarter, shinier, more resistant, and more resilient. I wasn't afraid of anything because the worst had already come. Yet like the flowers that curiously bloomed from the sterile, white window boxes placed in the window of every downtown shop, there was a spot of color, a spot of spontaneity, a spot of brightness in the boring, neutral landscape of my life. Enter Haymitch.

Yes. Drunken, cantankerous, belligerent, acidic Haymitch showed up and listened. Sobs melted into laughter, and the worst resignation and despair simply became acceptance and calm.

Everything felt real.

But, of course – and oh, do I know this best! – nothing can last forever.

So here we are: blurry and tired and whole-heartedly hated and utterly alone, and yet the tears don't come. I'm not surprised. I find it likely that after the horror of the Games and the Capitol and the destruction of everything that I've ever known, I am probably incapable of producing tears. I've cried them all out. So I sit.

I sit, like my mother used to, staring at nothing in particular, relishing the emptiness, until the knock on the door. There's no question. I open the door, and the first things that I see are hands. Bloodied, glass-coated, sun-kissed fingers that run into delicately dough-kneading palms and then chiseled forearms and next a good but slightly demented head on the shoulders.

A fellow Tribute. A friend. A lover. An enemy.

There is no hate. There is no joy. There is no elation, and there is no anger; there is only the familiar numbness as I sigh and step aside, letting Peeta into Haymitch's house. Logic would warn against this, but logic has abandoned the sphere of my existence. Silently, I move to the cabinet with the first aid supplies. If anything, I owe him this. I had caused the problem, and now I was going to amend it.


	15. To the End

**Hello, hello! Sorry I've been gone for so long. I've been writing and rewriting and revising and editing, and school and life just love to get in the way… Here's another chapter! Enjoy. **

**Katniss' POV **

My legs hang over the edge of a chair in Haymitch's living room and out of frayed denim cut offs that were surely a Capitol obscenity – even the Avoxes dressed better. But I didn't care. I didn't care about the Capitol, I didn't care about fighting for what's right, I didn't care about the scars, both mental and physical, that this entire Hunger Games ordeal had left on me, cluttering my mind and marring my body. I just wanted to be Katniss, free of any weight, reputation, connotation or double entendre. I want to have nice lie-downs and not wake up screaming from nightmares. I want to go buy bread without any emotional distress. I want to plant flowers in a garden and watch them grow, surrounded by loved ones, secure, but not oppressed. Was that too much to ask?

I shift, having sensed movement, but I immediately regret it. Instantly, I recall – but of course – that last night's events definitely couldn't have been possible without some help from our very dear friend, the gregarious and pleasant phenomenon that is alcohol and its subsequent intoxication. My head is pounding too much for me to even protest as Peeta gets up, gingerly pats me on the head, and walks past me to the kitchen. I'm rolling in the deep, nursing a hangover, and meanwhile, after brawling with Haymitch and getting his hands sliced up, Peeta goes and makes breakfast for all of us. Typical.

I don't want Haymitch to wake up. From behind aching lids, I could gauge the time as being somewhere around nine o' clock – at the moment, the lighting was far too bright for my standards –and anytime before noon is too early for Haymitch to wake up without being belligerent. Besides, the fact that I am wearing questionable shorts and one of Haymitch's old, oversized undershirts doesn't help things, but when you're exhausted and shaking and _shaken_ and you incidentally find a pair of your own shorts in a drawer, what better pajamas can you conjure up? Among other things, I didn't want Haymitch to find more time for switchblades or live target practice with them. One would think we would be fine, seeing as Haymitch's pocketknife is floating around somewhere, not in this house, right? Of course, I wouldn't put it past Haymitch to have a weapons stash somewhere. The Games do that to you.

I listen to the sound of Peeta putting around in the kitchen. Even under the pomp and circumstance and ice and hatred, he was innately sweet, and I hated him for it. I had to be grateful. I had to be courteous. I had to be kind. Vaguely, I wonder if today's mild hangover might make me even more irritable and unlovable than usual, but then again, could things get any worse? Still, the game had to be played right to make sure that nobody got an ear cut off before lunch

The sweet, mouth-watering _sound_ of slices of bacon making contact with a pan is enough to really wake me up. I open my eyes, and that's when I freeze.

Haymitch. Leaning against the wall as he watches the world from his window. He glances at me, no emotion passing over his face as he shifts to me. Here is a dangerous thing. Once the apathy sets in, there is no reasoning to be done. Of course, he could just be waiting for me to speak. Just because he wasn't showing emotion didn't mean that he harbored negative ones.

I stand up carefully, taking caution to avoid sudden movements. I want to question Haymitch, to subtly inquire what exactly he intended to do, because I didn't feel too cheerful about Peeta and Haymitch in an enclosed space with about three drawers full of fancy Capitol kitchen knives, but Haymitch holds his hand up. "Save it, Sweetheart."

I survey him a bit suspiciously as he looks outside the window again. He adds, "I'm not going to hurt him."

I want to snort, and sarcastically interject, "Oh, man. What a relief." But I hold myself back. I have to play things right. I don't like it. I don't like the tension – well, tension of this variety, anyway. There are other issues to be resolved, like the way Haymitch still managed to look good in a crumpled dress shirt and wrinkled slacks. If only I could straighten them out… On top of things, despite last night's mess, I had started to feel funny whilst searching for injuries. I had never really held his hand or examined his arms, which were littered with countless scars but still beautiful. Ask anyone from District 12: scars make for excellent stories.

I watch him carefully. Fearing the worst, I move towards him, only to be disappointed. With an almost automatic tug of the smooth, metal, handle, he opens a drawer and produces a tiny, neon green bottle with bright pink lettering upon the label. He twists the shiny rose-colored cap off of the container, and gulps down whatever is inside in two seconds flat. I can't be sure if the drink was to help the hangover go away or invite more of it to stay, but Haymitch seems to return to his normal self, if still a little more reserved than usual. Of course, maybe I'm spoiled by interacting with Haymitch while his guard was down, when he rowdy and sarcastic and flirtatious and a million times more— fun.

He looks at me. "Hangover Helper. From the Capitol. They give them out as party favors." He moves on the balls of his feet. "I mean, why would I hurt the boy?"

I raise an eyebrow dubiously. _Really? Did he really just ask that?_

"Free food, you know?" he continues, stretching his arms high above his head, and I watch, more fascinated than I should be, as the material expands across his chest and his shirt becomes untucked in the front and I notice some things. "Or rather, I don't have to cook, and he's a baker, so why not let him do the work, right?"

I sense an attempt at humor, and I feel my resolve start to melt, like fresh butter on one of Haymitch's exquisitely delicious pancakes. Out of all of the life-ruiners that I've met, I just can't stay properly angry with this one. Still, the smile doesn't become manifest. My heart is too heavy and too taxed, already charged with the task of trying to keep it together and trying to keep the only two people that I have left from killing each other.

His hand brushes my arm, and I become aware of our proximity to one another. Yes, Haymitch is a sorry hot mess, with more-often-than-not greasy bedhead and an attitude, his face the vision of age, though gracefully, and drunkenness, not so gracefully, but it's not a bad look on him. The only departure from the norm is the look of worry and resignation that has made its home on his face. There's that tension again, so thick that you can, well, throw your switchblade at it and then flip over a table. So, I wait patiently for whatever is to come.

He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it. Something tells me that this is more than just "Effie looks like a angry food-poisoned unicorn threw up all over her."

"I'm sorry."

It takes a moment to register. The words are clear and direct, like his gaze, but they're almost surreal. There isn't a sneer to taint the sentiment, or a hint of a smile to tell me that it isn't real. It's just Haymitch, still weather-beaten, slightly possibly definitely mentally unstable, 30 proof Haymitch, but sorry. Penitent. Genuine.

I'm not sure who moved first, but suddenly we're flush against one another, our lips colliding. Mentally, I'm screaming as Haymitch's hands find my waist and my mouth parts automatically to let him inside. _What are we doing_, and _Why_? But I know better. My hands lie almost useless at first, gripping his shoulders as I cling to him, but, as if of their own accord, find themselves at the roots of his matted, tangled mess of his hair, pulling him closer to me. The chaste embrace is replaced by legs in between the other's, and next thing I know we're on the couch.

I don't want to go this far, not for my sake, but for Peeta's. Like a saint, Peeta is making us ingrates breakfast, and I'm sure that this fragile calm that we've managed would blow up in our faces if Peeta strolled in, wondering if we had seen a measuring cup anywhere. However, I'm not in a position to speak. Pressed into cushions as Haymitch's lips trace down my jawline and across my neck, I gasp a little as his hands slide up underneath my shirt. I curse myself silently; yes, Peeta would be coming in to investigate. Damn. I relish the moment, the sensation of Haymitch's teeth on my collarbone, and his mouth catching mine before I can even make a sound. I couldn't say that this was the absolute first time, but above all else, I prayed that it wouldn't be our last.

Before we reach the point of no return, I slide my hands in between us, placing them on his chest, and gently prying him away, glancing pointed in the direction of the kitchen. He sighs, hardly holding back a devilish smile as he runs the back of his hand across his mouth. It's streaked with remnants of last night's lipstick, and I flush. "Fine," he says, grinning, turning to walk into the kitchen.

_Dear Lord_. I stop for a moment, and realize that I'm panting. I'm a mess, I'm a mess, I'm a mess. I sit up, and, knees pulled up to my chest, listen to Haymitch and Peeta having a chat in the kitchen. _Fix your hair_. I comb my fingers through my hair, untangling from it snags and knots and the lint accumulated by not spending the night in a proper bed. I'm sure now that my hair looks suspiciously nicer than it did to begin with, but hopefully Peeta won't be too suspicious. I rise, adjust my shirt, and head for the kitchen.


	16. The Only Hope for Me is You

**Long chapter. Last chapter. Officially. For sure, this was really fun to write. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. xoxo**

**Katniss' POV **

They're hugging.

Sunlight streams in through windows that surely Peeta cracked open. The aroma of the District's finest bacon and eggs pervades the air, and for the first time in what feels like forever, a real smile crosses my face.

"Are those pancakes?" I croak innocently, pretending (but not completely pretending) to rub sleep from the corner of my eyes. I focus on the two, now apart. Peeta looks mildly startled, that borderline adorable mixture of shock and curiosity that he had once worn when he heard deer knocking over plants in the garden or hearing whisks fall in the sink late at night. Of course, it could be thinly veiled PTSD, but it was still, well, adorable.

"Well are they?" I demanded politely, sliding an inflection of annoyance in for good measure. I shield my eyes as I traipse further into the sunlight. If anything, the boy needs bread—and the means to make it—and sunlight, along with flowers and smiles and paints and handholding and canvases and long hugs, his chest pressed against my back, fingers slowly stroking my hair as my sobs fade and I drift into a dreamless sleep…

"Yes." Peeta answers. "They are."

"Oh," I say. "Okay." There's a lengthy silence— one induced by the existence of pancakes, of all things— accompanied by Haymitch studying a hairline fracture in the kitchen tile and the hardness in Peeta's eyes melting.

"So. Are you guys chums, now?" I ask, wanting to break the silence. I walk over to the stove nonchalantly, giving the pancakes a looksee, as if the Games, the Capitol, and the mayhem and madness and loss and grief and pain and general bullshit happenings as of recent had never occurred. I pick up the spatula lying on the counter, giving the pancakes an experimental prod. I turn to the two of them, looking them right in the eyes.

"This will never do."

Haymitch looks relieved, but a frown darkens Peeta's face. Peeta looks thoroughly confused, but I dismiss him with a definitive swipe of my hand that makes both Haymitch and Peeta flinch. Right. Sudden movements. I had forgotten that I was holding a rather malevolent, metal kitchen utensil. Aren't we a sad, damaged lot? I also had flung batter everywhere.

"Haymitch's pancakes are better," I tease, making sure I meet Peeta's gaze. "I can already tell. Sorry, not sorry." With a grin, I hand the spatula to the man who knew what he was doing. He looks even more self-satisfied than when we kissed, if that was even possible. Smug bastard. I shouldn't feed his ego.

Peeta seems to have caught on, but his eyebrows are raised. _He probably thinks that I'm insane_. Well, he wasn't too far from the mark. _We're all mad here_. Still, I'm not about to open any wounds and rub salt in them. We were all generally peaceful, and we had come to some sort of agreement—a reconciliation at best, and an armistice at worst. I have found that I have a sick talent for picking fights and causing them—one could say that I brought down a government—but now was not the best time to exercise my talents.

"You're a good baker; I''ll give you that. Bacons and eggs look great, by the way. But the rest of this here is uncharted territory. How about I put you on OJ duty? You like orange juice, don't you?"

I get a wry smile, and a nod before he goes about his business.

I lift the glass up to my nose and make a face before setting it gingerly back down on the table.

"Really?" I ask, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Really? This early in the morning?"

Peeta smiles sheepishly and Haymitch gives me a sly grin.

"Well, " he starts pedantically, but I wave away an excuse that he has procured.

"Forget it, forget it. Dig in, guys."

Peeta looks content as he begins slicing up his fancy-shmancy Capitol-esque omelet – farm fresh eggs replete with gruyere cheese, diced ham, perfectly julienned bell peppers for color. Haymitch twirls around a five-layer deep package of pancakes, bacon and eggs on his fork, looking at me thoughtfully.

"'Dig in?' Did you just say 'dig in?'"

I shrug, surveying the smooth concrete of Haymitch's terrace. "It's what my father used to say." I look at him. "I've always wanted to say it. Of course, after he passed, I thought that I would never get the opportunity."

"Oh," he says lightly, nodding, popping his breakfast into his mouth and washing it down with a concoction that is one part coffee, one part liquor, and mostly cream. That was the end of our conversation about my father or my newly acquired vernacular.

I try to make small talk, prompting the pensive and mum Peeta into careful, light-hearted conversation. He appears more comfortable around Haymitch than he has in a while. In general, I would say, he looks more comfortable than he has in months. It makes me wonder, _even in Haymitch's drunken state…_ Because as long as I had known him, Haymitch had been pretty adept at handling his booze.

"Status quo antebellum," I say suddenly, earning strangle looks from the two men seated across from me.

"I'm sorry?" Haymitch says just as quickly, setting down his coffee mug, his hand flying to his chest. "Did you just you just insult my mother?"

I shake my head, my pitiful, tousled, dirty, slick, limp hair tossing in the slight wind. "It's Latin—" I start but in perfect Haymitch fashion, he cuts me off.

"You don't say."

I glare at him for a bit, and a smile spreads across his face. "I'm sorry. My bad. It's the coffee. And the… continue? Pretty please, Queen President Mistress of District 12 Katniss?"

Do I sense a double-entendre? Should I feel violated? I glare at him once more, seeing the small, almost non-existent smirk on Peeta's face. I just can't with these two…"It's a term that's used when you negotiate treaties. Basically it's when the parties in conflict restore things to the way they were before the war."

For a fraction of a second, I note the strangest look cross Haymitch's face—perhaps a smile but I couldn't quite be sure. I'd have to confront him. Later. When we were alone. Although I had a feeling that we wouldn't be talking. Much.

Peeta gulps down some more of his orange juice before meeting my eyes. "It's kind of a reset button, isn't?"

"Exactly," I say, smiling. "A fresh start."

"I like that," Peeta says between mouthfuls of fruit salad. "I'm…"

There is a shift. Haymitch is now alert, attentive, waiting. Does he know what Peeta intends to say? A quick assessment tells me "no," and then my curiosity is piqued.

"Well, I can't say that I'm completely and utterly happy and fine." He swigs a bit more of his mimosa and then swigs some more. Liquid courage, Haymitch once called it. He peers over the edge of Haymitch's terrace. "I really can't say that. Because I'm not."

Being the excellent orator he is, he gives us a moment to let the words sink in, to let us hear every facet of what he has to say. Honesty, I realize. He's giving us the complete truth. Which I realize is hard, especially if you're one of us.

"But I'm happier now, actually." Another shift in tone, and I look up and I find it. That smile. That million watt smile, only a bit more modest, a bit shier, a bit quieter, but still the one that brings back the sunshine escaping through the thick forest canopies beyond the electric fence, the glimmer of coarse craft glitter on one of Prim's old tri-fold presentations, that dizzying first kiss when in the most dangerous times of my life I could simply _breathe_ and feel safe. Feel loved.

"That's good to hear," I say. And he nods.

"And I'd like to stay here, with you guys. If that's all right."

A bit of a sinking feeling descends upon me, but I realize that it's just petty selfishness. I couldn't play house with Haymitch forever and besides, first and foremost was the fact that Peeta needed me—no, needed _us_—to be there for him. It was the least we could do. Besides, I can't really cook and it is quite common knowledge that despite Haymitch's cooking skills, Haymitch is the absolute supreme lazy bum.

Still, Haymitch is the first to speak. He knocks back the coffee and whiskey and cream before shouting, "Hell yeah, son! It's fine. One thing though." He drinks a bit more, and I can't help but smile at the little face that Haymitch sometimes makes as the alcohol scorches his throat – like it's pretty painful, but he's enjoying it anyways. "You really need to kick that bitch out."

The grin widens and I am _dead_. True sunshine after the storm. I raise my glass.

"To freedom," I say.

"From crazy bitches," Haymitch says, winking ostentatiously at Peeta and I resist the urge to smack him.

"To freedom," Peeta says finally, touching his glass against ours.

"Hell yeah!" roars Haymitch. "I think it's time for some before morning shots. P-Mel, you need something for your restored manhood. I'll hook you up." He stands up and runs into the kitchen. We hear a couple of things falling and some glass breaking and Peeta and I can't help but chuckle a little. Just like old times. Haymitch comes in, arms laden with tiny shot glasses and a bottle of some curious-looking purple liquid. "Pick three of your favorites and you can keep them. It's time to celebrate."

Peeta picks three, awkwardly, like he's twelve again. The first one is clear and decorated with a hand-painted golden laurel wreath around the bottom and the number twelve stamped in big, black letters—kind of like the uniform letters spray-painted onto wooden coal crates through industrial stencils. The second is pretty and non-descript, a thick, itsy bitsy little glass with a woven basket design around it. The last is typical – neo-classical, made of some sort of glazed pottery, blue skies and green grass colored almost garishly unto the cup.

"Excellent choice, excellent choice." Haymitch's grin is two inches short of manic. The whole scene is poignant and I can't help but feel warm and cheerful inside. I can't even remember how long it's been since I last felt like this. I spot Haymitch with a huge, crystal bottle and I make a face of mock incredulity.

"Really, Haymitch? Really?"

"Drinks on me," he jokes filling up the glasses. "Bottoms up!"

We drink once more to Peeta's freedom. And so marks a new beginning. We're making a fresh start. With a hearty District 12 seven ounces of liquid Lord-knows-what, we take one step towards harmony. That's not to say that with one drink, we erase _everything_—the lies and the drama and the loss and the bullshit. But we're one step closer to normal, as normal as we'll ever be. Haymitch, Peeta and I are quite the threesome, in a _somewhat_ platonic manner. Ever since that first horrific day, that Reaping, we had each been bound to each other, for better _and_ for worse. And yet, despite the horrors that that arose from that one particular day, we each had gained something we weren't quite accustomed to having: a real family. Not a nuclear family, by far, but a family nonetheless. The least we could do was try to stick together. We are all that we have left.

Shouting overtly flirtatious obscenities and giggling wildly as Haymitch and Peeta dance on the poor rickety table on the terrace, I can for the first time say that I am happy – or on the road to being happy. Perhaps "content" is a more felicitous term. Happy for the moment. Not perpetually happy or permanently happy. That would take years, not mere hours or days or even months. Not even medication really does the job. But we're getting there. We're getting better. And I can't say "no" to that.

"If there's a place that I could be, then I'd be another memory. Can I be the only hope for you, because you're the only hope for me? And if we can't find where we belong, we'll have to make it on our own. Face all the pain and take it on. Because the only hope for me is you alone."


End file.
